In the Minutes After (1/1, R, John)
Title: In the Minutes After
Author: acerbus_instar
Characters/Pairing(s): John Winchester
Rating: R
Warnings: Graphic violence + death. C’mon, Team Hell here.
Summary: They were going to catch up with him eventually. Surely he had to know that. And once they did, well - they would catch up with everything else, too.
Word Count: 775
Disclaimer: Do not own!
A/N: Written for Round 1 of spn_teamfic.
In the minutes after, everything’s noise: the groans of settling metal, the hissed sputter of a cracked radiator, the tik-tik-tik of the turn signal that got switched on when a loose hand hit the steering column. Over everything, the arrhythmic rustles and thumps as the man crushed between bench seat and wheel seizes.
He’s dying, you see. His ribs are crushed inward, tearing into his oh-so-tender viscera. He’s dancing that one last jitter-step towards the grave, and that’s fine; the demon is happy to wait.
Up the bank of rotting leaves and dirt, an engine sputters to a stop as headlights vivisect the branches of the pines above. A 38-year-old schoolteacher climbs out of his Toyota and marvels at the path of destruction leading through the foliage, right down to the mess of a car. A behemoth car, at that; its taillights are lighting up half the grove, even as the man inside breaths his last.
The notion of fresh meat incites the demon to action.
Gravel crunches under the Good Samaritan’s boots while glass crackles under the shifting feet of the man spilling blood across the ruined car’s floorboards. Erratic movements have turned purposeful in the lapse; a wedding band glints under blood and glass while fingers grip the steering wheel tight. The bits of glass embedded in the palm provide useful traction for the tedious process of levering away from the car’s crushed frame, particularly when the slick blood there keeps making palsied fingers slip.
The onlooker double-times it down the embankment, seeing the driver collapse on hands and knees in the wet leaf litter. His adrenaline’s up - the demon can smell it - and patronizing pity with it. “You should sit down-“
It does the opposite, staggering two steps forward and standing up tall. There’s a thick line of bloody saliva rolling down his chin. It’s grinning like a pleased cat.
The Samaritan’s just close enough to make sense of the jagged lines and bloody-black ridges of the dead man’s throat by the erratic flash of the classic’s turn signal.
“Jesus Christ.”
A hoarse laugh, shards of plastic and glass grating in its voice. “He’s not your man tonight.”
It turns away to examine the car. Hands slap against the roof, the broken window, the bent door frame before finally seizing upon a strip of metal torn halfway loose from the edge of the door’s weatherstripping. It rips the splattered chrome away from the frame with a deft twist of a wrist.
A fond eye passes over the ragged edge, and then it’s staring at the pale-faced human with eyes black as char.
This particular Good Samaritan’s not smart enough to know a worshipper when he sees it. He doesn’t even try to run. And that’s fine, too. The demon is happy to teach.
It breaks three of the man’s ribs and severs his spine mid-back before it pins him to the roof - drives that gleaming piece of trim straight through the thick cartilage of his neck.
To the man’s credit, he’d stopped screaming long before that.
He starts again - a broken, gargling noise - once the fire licking along the weeping oil lines within the engine compartment begins to burn in earnest. But the headlights overhead have gone by then. Not even the dead man with glass in his throat stays to watch the Good Samaritan burn.
Four hours past, someone reports a car burning by the side of Route 70. It’s a big car, a classic; hell of a mess. The trees overhead are still smoldering from what must’ve been the gas tank going, despite the damp of late March.
Thirty miles west, the damp has turned to rain.
In the confines of a phone booth the Yellow Pages gets torn out of its holder hard enough to rip loose the metal hook securing it to the shelf. Rainwater splashes dark across the pages as aimless fingers wander from H to M and back again. When the red-soaked water gets too thick, a hand smears the page clear.
M-MOTELS-LOCAL
Aniston House, 445 N 53rd St
The line rings twice before the clerk picks up with a curt, “Aniston House.”
The demon clears enough clotted blood from John Winchester’s throat to grind out, “Had a room there under Sheridan, James.”
“Uh-huh,” the woman snaps curtly, no pause. “Your boys checked in not too long ago. It’s not our policy to let minors sign in by themselves, Mr. Sheridan. Gonna have to see you pretty soon with some ID, if you don’t mind.”
It speaks as cheerfully as its shredded voice can allow. “Shouldn’t be much longer, ma’am.”
Finis
A/N: ...and then Dean kills the demon through sheer mad thirteen-year-old skill, the brothers Wee!chester hug, and real!John rides in like the proverbial cavalry in the very-not-dead Impala mere minutes later. After torching the fake!John body they all go out for ice cream and pizza. The end!
Other A/N: shit, man, I killed John, the Impala, and possibly the Weechesters. ...I feel rather overwhelmingly guilty.
Author: acerbus_instar
Characters/Pairing(s): John Winchester
Rating: R
Warnings: Graphic violence + death. C’mon, Team Hell here.
Summary: They were going to catch up with him eventually. Surely he had to know that. And once they did, well - they would catch up with everything else, too.
Word Count: 775
Disclaimer: Do not own!
A/N: Written for Round 1 of spn_teamfic.
In the minutes after, everything’s noise: the groans of settling metal, the hissed sputter of a cracked radiator, the tik-tik-tik of the turn signal that got switched on when a loose hand hit the steering column. Over everything, the arrhythmic rustles and thumps as the man crushed between bench seat and wheel seizes.
He’s dying, you see. His ribs are crushed inward, tearing into his oh-so-tender viscera. He’s dancing that one last jitter-step towards the grave, and that’s fine; the demon is happy to wait.
Up the bank of rotting leaves and dirt, an engine sputters to a stop as headlights vivisect the branches of the pines above. A 38-year-old schoolteacher climbs out of his Toyota and marvels at the path of destruction leading through the foliage, right down to the mess of a car. A behemoth car, at that; its taillights are lighting up half the grove, even as the man inside breaths his last.
The notion of fresh meat incites the demon to action.
Gravel crunches under the Good Samaritan’s boots while glass crackles under the shifting feet of the man spilling blood across the ruined car’s floorboards. Erratic movements have turned purposeful in the lapse; a wedding band glints under blood and glass while fingers grip the steering wheel tight. The bits of glass embedded in the palm provide useful traction for the tedious process of levering away from the car’s crushed frame, particularly when the slick blood there keeps making palsied fingers slip.
The onlooker double-times it down the embankment, seeing the driver collapse on hands and knees in the wet leaf litter. His adrenaline’s up - the demon can smell it - and patronizing pity with it. “You should sit down-“
It does the opposite, staggering two steps forward and standing up tall. There’s a thick line of bloody saliva rolling down his chin. It’s grinning like a pleased cat.
The Samaritan’s just close enough to make sense of the jagged lines and bloody-black ridges of the dead man’s throat by the erratic flash of the classic’s turn signal.
“Jesus Christ.”
A hoarse laugh, shards of plastic and glass grating in its voice. “He’s not your man tonight.”
It turns away to examine the car. Hands slap against the roof, the broken window, the bent door frame before finally seizing upon a strip of metal torn halfway loose from the edge of the door’s weatherstripping. It rips the splattered chrome away from the frame with a deft twist of a wrist.
A fond eye passes over the ragged edge, and then it’s staring at the pale-faced human with eyes black as char.
This particular Good Samaritan’s not smart enough to know a worshipper when he sees it. He doesn’t even try to run. And that’s fine, too. The demon is happy to teach.
It breaks three of the man’s ribs and severs his spine mid-back before it pins him to the roof - drives that gleaming piece of trim straight through the thick cartilage of his neck.
To the man’s credit, he’d stopped screaming long before that.
He starts again - a broken, gargling noise - once the fire licking along the weeping oil lines within the engine compartment begins to burn in earnest. But the headlights overhead have gone by then. Not even the dead man with glass in his throat stays to watch the Good Samaritan burn.
Four hours past, someone reports a car burning by the side of Route 70. It’s a big car, a classic; hell of a mess. The trees overhead are still smoldering from what must’ve been the gas tank going, despite the damp of late March.
Thirty miles west, the damp has turned to rain.
In the confines of a phone booth the Yellow Pages gets torn out of its holder hard enough to rip loose the metal hook securing it to the shelf. Rainwater splashes dark across the pages as aimless fingers wander from H to M and back again. When the red-soaked water gets too thick, a hand smears the page clear.
M-MOTELS-LOCAL
Aniston House, 445 N 53rd St
The line rings twice before the clerk picks up with a curt, “Aniston House.”
The demon clears enough clotted blood from John Winchester’s throat to grind out, “Had a room there under Sheridan, James.”
“Uh-huh,” the woman snaps curtly, no pause. “Your boys checked in not too long ago. It’s not our policy to let minors sign in by themselves, Mr. Sheridan. Gonna have to see you pretty soon with some ID, if you don’t mind.”
It speaks as cheerfully as its shredded voice can allow. “Shouldn’t be much longer, ma’am.”
Finis
A/N: ...and then Dean kills the demon through sheer mad thirteen-year-old skill, the brothers Wee!chester hug, and real!John rides in like the proverbial cavalry in the very-not-dead Impala mere minutes later. After torching the fake!John body they all go out for ice cream and pizza. The end!
Other A/N: shit, man, I killed John, the Impala, and possibly the Weechesters. ...I feel rather overwhelmingly guilty.